


old time religion

by hamiltrashed



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Love, M/M, Romance, Sex, Sorry Not Sorry, daryl's body is a religion, love in the time of apocalypse, oops i got super sacrilegious in this, rick worships at that temple, the sex is not actually that explicit but y'know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 18:17:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4110451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltrashed/pseuds/hamiltrashed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>this is what is holy: a meeting of bodies in a makeshift sanctuary, shared breaths as hymns, and long, sweet kisses as communion. here, names are prayers - names whispered and sighed and moaned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	old time religion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SkariCovers (skarlatha)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skarlatha/gifts).



> this is what happens at midnight when you're listening to hozier and having rickyl feels. you get all sacrilegious and bastardise bible verses from your childhood church-going years. psalm 23 in that last line anyone? oops. (it's too late for me now anyway. i'm pagan.) anyway, i'm not sure anyone minds that daryl and rick doing the deed is treated as sacred here. i certainly don't. apologies again for the lack of proper caps. for some reason, the way i want to write them begs for lowercase.
> 
> p.s. this was written for skarlatha whose fabulous walking dead writing (which you should all be reading omg why are you wasting your time on me) inspired me to write my own for which i am grateful particularly because these two little fics i've done now are the first things i've finished writing in forever.

daryl’s voice sounds like gravel at the bottom of a muddy georgia creek, each syllable falling into the next like dominoes as he mumbles, “ain’t got long,” at rick. rick, who is deep enough in daryl that he can’t tell where he ends and daryl begins. rick, who is doing his best to keep moving while trailing only the very tips of his fingers across daryl’s back, making his way down, down - to where, he’s not quite sure.

“all the time in the world,” rick answers, leaning down to brush his lips against deeply tanned, warm skin kissed by a thousand days of sun. in reality, it’s both - long enough for time alone but never long enough for either of them. rick takes full advantage of whatever time he can get with daryl, here in the tower at sunset, far enough away from the prison to be by themselves, near enough in case of an emergency. rick thinks _this_ might actually be an emergency and anything else can be handled by someone else. just for one small half of an hour, rick pretends they are the only two humans left alive. 

the muscles in daryl’s back tense as rick trails his fingers over scars, scars that speak to daryl’s past. rick believes daryl has survived much worse than what the world is throwing at them now. long before the threat of dead hands pulling flesh from his bones was the threat of it being stripped from his body by something else, by _someone_ else. but rick treats that same broad expanse of daryl’s body with reverence now, whispers loving words against long-healed wounds, as if he could breathe his unending faith in daryl into daryl’s lungs just by wishing it. rick is the only one daryl lets see or touch his unclothed back, ever, a sign of trust that goes beyond any word ever created by man.

rick knows the story now of every scar. not just the ones given to him, but ones he earned by virtue of his own endurance. daryl is a protector, a survivor, and even the worst scars are treasured in a way not many would understand. but rick understands.

there is something about daryl that rick has never seen in another person. he’s true, real, and where the world has taken from all of them now, it has given back to daryl in a way it hasn’t for the rest of them. daryl has almost certainly met the fear of god like every southern boy, but there is no religion in those veins. instead, this is what is holy: a meeting of bodies in a makeshift sanctuary, shared breaths as hymns, and long, sweet kisses as communion. here, names are prayers - names whispered and sighed and moaned.

here, rick sets down the heavy weight of what has been building up in him over days, weeks, months, years. each button that loosens cotton or flannel from his skin is another sin gone, another ache relieved, another bit of his mind set at ease. it’s temporary, but it’s good, like waiting for rain and being washed clean when it finally comes, even when you know the dirt will cling to you again just as soon as it stops. there is joy in this, _only_ in this now, in the dance of lips, sharp-boned hips, and fingertips that he and daryl have become.

this, rick thinks, is what god is. this is what old time religion really looked like, before some long-forgotten zealot was born and fucked it all up for the rest of the world. every soft scrape of dirty nails along rick’s back is what it is to worship. every full-throated plea to not stop, _never_ stop is what it means to make a joyful noise. this is kneeling at an altar and making a most heartfelt offering. most days, the world is thin, without substance, and the only way to give it body is to engage in this kind of sermon with daryl.

this is returning home. this was fated, before whitewashed hospital walls, before a wedding band, before a badge and a gun, before birth. this is how the universe meant for it to be, always, and it has succeeded in making it happen. rick knows this now. faith, after all, is being sure of what you cannot see, what you cannot really know. even when he couldn’t see this coming, not even from a foot away, something in him was sure.

and when all has returned to dust, this will still be destined. even in rick’s grave, there will be a place for daryl. a pile of 412 bones, woven together, still trembling and burning for one another, phantom heartbeats loud like thunder.

until then, this is what rick will hold onto. he is not a praying man, not now, but give him that real old time religion. this version of a gospel. give him daryl and their sermon, their prayers, their communion, their hymns of only each other.

_preach_ , rick thinks, as daryl’s fingers curl against the blanket beneath them and he lets out a quiet gasp. _tell me i’m your shepherd. tell me you shall not want._


End file.
